


I Met Jesus, What A Liar

by iamtheleftbrain



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Human, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, They are middle aged, they're not young adults i repeat they are like 50 in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-20 15:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19994446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamtheleftbrain/pseuds/iamtheleftbrain
Summary: Aziraphale, the lovable and short-tempered bookstore owner, and Crowley, the man who had shown up out of nowhere, begin their long friendship as drinking buddies. It soon begins to blossoms into something more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I'd love to talk about me writing this fanfiction but I'm watching Orange Is The New Black season 7 and I want to fucking die rn wtf is happening. Sorry this is short btw  
> Anyways follow my tumblr if you'd like:  
> Queersturbate

The night sky always fascinated Aziraphale. The way the stars made their rounds around the earth, and the feeling he would get when he saw the handsome face in the moon. He never learned the constellations because he never wanted to. 

That's what Aziraphale does on Saturday nights. He goes into St. James Park around 10 pm when the sun has gone down and the moon was at its peak, and he talks to the man in the moon. Admire the stars and ignores the shapes they make. A little snack and an enjoyable conversation are what he looked forward to on his weekends. His little bookshop of 10 years would be vacant all night with a little recycled sign on the front window that reads: 'Come back Monday! Or don't!'

He found it very amusing when he went lollygagging through an antique shop once. The owner of the antique said it was from a shop that closed down in the 1800s. Aziraphale loved old things. 

Today, February 22, 1964; a Saturday, had been incredibly hard for Aziraphale. He had lost a bid on an old copy of a random trading map, a child had spilled a soda on the bookshop's floor, and to make matters worse- someone had bought a book today. The audacity of some people, he thought, to come into my bookshop and  _ buy  _ a book. 

He knew it was unreasonable. Doesn't mean he can't complain. 

The only reason he owns a bookshop is that the city wouldn't let him own a library. 

He loved his books and hated his customers. 

At the end of this very stressful and long day, he was ready to talk to the man in the moon. He grabbed his premade sandwich and overcoat and set out on a very chilly night. 

Aziraphale would only look up to the sky when he set his first foot in St James' Park. He'd look straight at the sidewalk below him until then. He wanted to savor the flavor of the sky.

"Hello, Mr. Moon," he said. 

The moon gifted its white glow onto the park. 

They had a lovely chat. He told him about the soda spilling on an old copy of The Great Gatsby and some new books by Ray Bradbury. They were kept on the lower shelf, as they were newer than most of Aziraphale's books. The book the woman had bought that afternoon. 

The moon never replied, but they understood the middle-aged man nonetheless.

"I prayed today. I'm not sure why, or what for, but I did. I thought it'd give me comfort. It just seems like They're ignoring me now." Aziraphale felt ashamed for doubting the Almighty. He passed his eyes across the sky. The stars sparkled. "I told Them talking to you has given me more comfort than my prayers."

"Excuse me." A voice came from behind Aziraphale- to which he nearly jumped hysterically at. He turned around in the wooden bench. 

"Yes?" He couldn't see anyone. 

"Pardon me, uh, who are you talking to?" The man, dressed in all black, came out from the shadows. He didn't seem threatening to Aziraphale despite what effort he put into his appearance to make it that way. 

The man looked expectantly at him. 

"Oh. Uhm...the moon?" Aziraphale said, unsure. 

The man looked up to the spectacle in the sky. His mouth formed an upside-down U, and he sat next to Aziraphale, not caring about his posture. 

The man shook his head, and his long red hair bounced around. He had long bangs that folded over his eyes a bit. The sunglasses on his head pushed the rest of his wavy hair away from his thin cheeks. He had a very peculiar tattoo right below his sideburn. Aziraphale couldn't decide what it was. 

"Do you mind if I join?" The man asked. 

Aziraphale looked up to the moon. They had no objections. "It'd be a pleasure. What's your name? If you don't mind." 

The man seemed to smile, but Aziraphale couldn't tell, "Anthony Crowley. Call me Crowley. What's yours?" Crowley's voice was very soft. 

"Aziraphale." He didn't bother to give his last name. Crowley's thin, cold hand shook Aziraphale's soft, warm one. Despite the shock, he didn't want to let go. 

"Aziraphale," Crowley tried out the name, "That's very biblical-ly, isn't it?" 

"I suppose." Aziraphale smiled. 

Crowley nodded. "So, you're having doubts, angel?" 

"How long were you standing behind me?" Aziraphale asked. 

"Since you told Miss Moon here about the little brat and his soda." 

" _ That  _ long?" 

"You're very relaxing to listen to," Crowley said. 

Aziraphale decided right then that Mr. Crowley and himself were going to be great friends. 

Crowley had decided the same.

"Would you like to come over for a drink?" The bookshop owner asked. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I put homophobia in the tags because it is the 1960's, but I will do my best not to incorporate any hardcore homophobia unless its important to the story. I'm queer and nonbinary I really don't need more homophobia in my life if I can help it!  
> Also, I know it says friends to lovers but I'm like getting bored of them just being friends (yes I know it's only the second chapter) so let's speed it up, people!!
> 
> (if you're interested in a playlist I'm making for when I write this here's the link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4c0YeK0z1BeTihwCnYJm3D?si=AjlI2UlaS3SKf4z09qjLxg )

The locals knew not to go into Aziraphale's bookshop if you had any intent on buying something. You simply went in to browse. Maybe have tea with him and listen to the rambles of a middle-aged man. It was a common thing Aziraphale did; have tea with his customers. 

He enjoyed talking with the young adults with old souls that came in. They'd give him hope for the younger generations. They weren't allowed to buy books, but Aziraphale regularly gave them some extra copies he had found.

The bookshop was full of love and loyalty between the regulars and Aziraphale. Everything had its place. The little knick-knacks Aziraphale had picked up while antique shopping was not  just strewn about.

The collective spoons were laid out carefully by the register, the old maps and scrolls were tucked neatly away in a few wicker baskets he had acquired, birthday cards, letters, bottle caps, smooth rocks, small wooden toys, bookmarks, globes, half-burned candles, vintage wine, old scotch, and autographed headshots all respectfully placed in their own area. Aziraphale considered everything very,  _ very  _ important.

However, the entire place was made out of wood and old books. If you ever considered walking into the shop too fast, it might catch a spark and burst into flames. 

"Have you ever considered moving, angel?" Crowley asked. They were having brunch together in the shop. It's become a daily routine for them. Crowley would come into the shop around 11 am, Aziraphale would be ready with whatever he was craving that morning, his friend would light-heartedly complain, and they'd enjoy each other. They'd been doing this a few weeks.

"Never. I’ve had this bookshop for 21 years," Aziraphale said, "do you know how many boxes that would require, too? The rent anywhere else in Central London is ridiculous." 

Crowley bobbed his head back and forth and mumbled, "fair point. Anyways, what's for breakfast?" 

Crowley didn't eat much, but when he did, he'd scarf it down like it was his last meal. Aziraphale preferred to bask in the flavor and take his time.

"I thought warm croissants with jam would be splendid. It's been awfully frigid lately. Don't you think?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shrugged and murmured. His friend looked very lovely today, Aziraphale thought. He had his long hair in a low ponytail, and a strand of hair wrapped around the elastic. His bangs were pulled back with a flat black headband. It was a feminine look, but it didn't seem to bother Crowley, so it didn't bother Aziraphale.

Crowley's attire aesthetic never changed no matter the weather. He had a textured maroon turtleneck, a black suit jacket and trousers, and very shiny, scaly boots. Aziraphale couldn't help but steal peeks.

He sat a plate of two croissants and a dollop of strawberry jam. "What will you be up to today, my dear?" Aziraphale asked. He went back to fixing the shelves after some outsiders came in and  _ browsed _ .

Crowley watched Aziraphale pace around a moment before answering. "Well, I was going to ask you for lunch to celebrate, but you ruined the surprise." 

Aziraphale turned away from Crowley and smiled. "What's there to celebrate?" 

Crowley ignored the question. "I was thinking about The Ritz. What do you say?"

"I'd love to, my dear, but..." Aziraphale said.

"But?" 

Despite the very obvious closed sign (another recycled one that reads: NOTICE: We are presently not open because we are closed) someone took it upon themselves to try to rip the door off its hinges. They yelled something. Crowley and Aziraphale ignored them. 

"The Ritz is very popular right now. You have to book a table at least a day ahead. Even then it’s a bit spotty" Aziraphale sat across from Crowley now.

Crowley leaned away from him. "I'll handle it."

A series of bangs commenced from the storefront. People in London can be incredibly rude.

"We're closed! ...Uh, what time, again?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley stood up. He had eaten all of his breakfast/lunch. He avoided looking at Aziraphale, despite himself. His lanky legs almost tripped over themselves as he backed towards the heavy oak doors. Someone was peeping through the mail slot.

"7. I'll pick you up at 7, on the dot."

"My dear, that is  _ dinner.  _ Not lunch."

"I'll see you later, angel. Thank you for breakfast." and he left, mumbling something hateful to the peeping Tom. 

The intruder stood in the open doorway. They were tall and painfully American. 

"Hello, Aziraphale," The American said in his American accent. They were almost the complete opposite of Crowley. Tanned skin that was glowing with the contrast of an all-grey suit, the tie had a bit of iridescent detail to it. The American's smile and posture were sarcastic and raw. 

"Ahh," Aziraphale laughed nervously, "Gabriel, what a lovely surprise…"

Gabriel opened his arms, but it was not comforting. It looked like a mother who offered a hug to a child she had just beaten. "Rent's due." 

Aziraphale widened his eyes. "Oh…"

….

The Ritz was everything Aziraphale remembered. He dined, every night, at the exquisite restaurant when it had first gotten popular. It’s been a couple of decades ago since the waitresses and cooks recognized him. He ate alone and stayed for hours listening to pianists and singers they brought in. He'd order the small desserts they'd advertised so much. 

After he got his bookshop up and running, he rarely came in. He stopped going altogether in the early '50s. Rent got too high and it seemed useless to go by himself. 

When Crowley showed up he had not expected an old fashioned Bentley to be what he drove. Maybe a Pontiac or something grandeur. Aziraphale knew hardly anything about Crowley. Just that he ate fast and he didn't seem to blink. He could be an excellent conversationalist when he wanted to be. 

He knew nothing about where his new friend worked or lived or drove- well, not anymore. Crowley was always curious about Aziraphale and never offered any information about himself. Aziraphale had decided, sternly, that this night was in celebration of their newfound friendship, and was dedicated to his new friend. 

"Table for two. Anthony," Crowley told the restaurant hostess. 

She scanned the names on the very long list and smiled as she stopped halfway through. "Of course, Mr. Anthony Crowley, how lovely. This way, gentlemen." 

Aziraphale hadn't gotten particularly dolled up, but he did straighten his sweater vest and tightened his tie. May have even brushed his hair. He had a very beige sense of style that he himself appreciated, and that was enough. Comfort over fashion is a respectable life motto for him. 

Crowley, surprisingly, had not changed his clothes from this morning despite loving a wardrobe change. He just added to his outfit, making it complete.

He had a fine pearl necklace and a small, minimalistic silver watch. His red hair was pulled into more of a tight, slick bun than a ponytail. It showed off his lovely pearl earrings. He had a very feminine and masculine way about him. 

They sat at the finest table of the restaurant, based on Aziraphale's research from the way back when. It had a lovely view of the piano and singers. They could see every window view from this spot. Aziraphale never could get it booked. 

"How long ago did you call to get these seats?" Aziraphale asked, completely starstruck. 

"I think a week ago. I'm not sure," Crowley said. He had his face in the menu. "Who was the bugger outside your shop this morning?" 

Aziraphale breathed out, heavy. "Oh, that was Gabriel. He wanted the rent money. He can very passive-aggressive when need be." 

Crowley stumbled on some vowels and fell silent.

The Ritz had everything Aziraphale could appreciate. Perfectly made food with many courses, a lovely atmosphere, and delightful music. Now, he had someone to share it with tonight.

After the initial awkwardness of being out to dinner with a new friend, the two started to enjoy each other. Aziraphale asked his questions about Crowley's life. They ate, laughed, and shared each of their life stories. Crowley tried his best not to smile too much.

It was getting late and they were one of the few taken tables left before closing. 

A man stepped up to the mic in the back of the restaurant. "One last song to close the night out, everyone. This is My Funny Valentine by the legend Ella Fitzgerald herself, and also sung by me." The man cleared his throat. Music started.

_ Behold the way our fine feathered friend, _

_ His virtue doth parade _

_ Thou knowest not, my dim-witted friend _

_ The picture thou hast made _

_ Thy vacant brow, and thy tousled hair _

_ Conceal thy good intent _

_ Thou noble upright truthful sincere, _

_ And slightly dopey gent  _

The two gentlemen ate the last of their dessert. Watching their respective plates like it was an enrapturing new film.

_ You're my funny valentine, _

_ Sweet comic valentine, _

_ You make me smile with my heart. _

_ Your looks are laughable, un-photographable, _

_ Yet, you're my favorite work of art. _

It was a quick move, it might not have happened at all, but Crowley flashed his gaze onto his companion. When Aziraphale looked up to catch his eye, Crowley was looking down again.

He seemed to want to say something.

_ Is your figure less than Greek? _

_ Is your mouth a little weak? _

_ When you open it to speak, are you smart? _

_ But, don't change a hair for me. _

_ Not if you care for me. _

_ Stay little valentine, stay! _

_ Each day is Valentine's Day _

_ Is your figure less than Greek? _

_ Is your mouth a little weak? _

_ When you open it to speak, are you smart? _

_ But, don't change a hair for me. _

_ Not if you care for me. _

_ Stay little valentine, stay! _

_ Each day is Valentine's Day... _

The restaurant had scattered applause for the old man as he carried on the last note. "That was a lovely song," Aziraphale said.

"Mhm."


End file.
